


Yellow

by aches



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love triangle with Baek bc I love Chanbaek and Baekxing, M/M, Poetic, Romance, Slice of Life, side seho, side xiuchen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aches/pseuds/aches
Summary: Kyungsoo can feel paint running through his bones, but responsibility is faster.There is a boy, though, whose colours dance with all the freedom in the world.Kyungsoo would like to think that if he can paint Jongin, he can paint a future for himself too.





	1. Prologue

Kyungsoo sits. He sits and watches his brush smother paint across a canvas and he watches himself create. As if he’s not there, as if his mind is too busy playing games to notice the cloud of responsibility hanging like an omen. It hasn’t started to chase him yet, but it will. He knows this. For now he sits and pauses to bend his rusty limbs, taking in the moon dust floating through the open window.

In some alternate plane of existence, Kyungsoo would forget how to worry. He would forget what it feels like to have his thoughts corrupted by someone else’s wishes. He would forget to listen and instead gratify himself by staring into the ever-changing sky, where he thinks he would feel much safer. If the sky is his saviour, then the earth is nothing more than a burden, and all the people in it merely discarded stardust. He spends most of his time wondering why he was not launched into the solar system instead of being held back and laden with a future he had no choice in. The stardust littering the earth has no empathy for the lost boy with a back bent by judgement, so he gives it no piece of his heart.

A wind rattles the trees as well as Kyungsoo’s skin. He grits his teeth to keep himself from shivering, and now his mind plays games with the cold. There is a kind of calm to it, though. The way the wind nuzzles its way through the airy curtains covering rows and rows of windows, the way the sky isn’t dark blue, but more of a deep velvet purple clashing against a black backdrop. Kyungsoo likes it; the way the sky is littered with stars and he can stare and stare and no one will look back except those heavenly sisters that hold no judgement in their exploding hearts. He’d like to believe he can join them one day, when all this is over and he has stopped worrying about human things like catching illness, (as if it was something to desire holding onto once caught) or whether he’ll have the courage to stand in these halls again tomorrow.

Old, wooden, paint-splattered, the brush clatters to the ground. Kyungsoo stares at his fingers. They shake, they swell, they cry in agony. The will to create has long drained from them, and it drags his figure through the floor, back hunched and head tilted. The studio spins in his vision when he attempts a glance at the clock and Kyungsoo decides he’d rather close his eyes than face the world waiting at his feet for the chance to pounce on him. What else can he do? He can’t even bring himself to touch canvas for more than half an hour without the world inverting and the clatter of wood on linoleum invading his ears.

Kyungsoo cannot cry because of the rules nailed into his brain by the hammer his father holds over his head, so his hands do instead. They sob and break in front of him until he puts one to the line of his mouth and bites. Kyungsoo cannot cry and he has learned that allowing his hands to do so brings him more horror than necessary, so he copes by using the mundane habit of biting his nails. Anything to convince himself that he is not going insane.

He runs home that night, long coat slapping against the canvas under his arm as he dashes across the city to escape himself.

*********

He needs the quick fix only convenience store ramen can serve him. It’s not ideal, but since he spent the whole day allowing his stomach to slowly eat itself, Kyungsoo thinks it’s the least he can do. Aisles stacked high with calories, diabetes, and cholesterol—the monsters with gaping mouths that tore his family to shreds—paired with floor to ceiling pristine white, gives the place the air of a mental asylum. If it weren’t for the dust bunnies bounding in clumps across the floor and gathering under shelves, Kyungsoo would say that it is one and has held him prisoner since the first day he entered the cacophony of screaming deadlines and cramming knowledge that is college. Thinking of his short stature and stout build, Kyungsoo thinks it would be easy to succumb to the madness, envisions the years of dietary treatment and sterile bed awaiting him, winces, and forces himself to push it to the back of his head like everything else related to his mother. _Ramen, ramen, ramen_ , that’s what he’s doing right now.

Bracing himself before the aisle, Kyungsoo searches for the fish and vegetable ramen out of habit because, as Junmyeon would say, “ _if you’re going to live off of ramen, at least_ try _to make it a balanced meal.”_ Hearing it from someone majoring in Dietetics makes him feel a bit better. Only a bit.

A bell rings from the front of the store and Kyungsoo turns his head towards the sound. He sees himself there, reflected in the dark window, bundled in a hoodie and jean jacket, hair ruffled across his forehead. Passing his reflection and the glass, Kyungsoo’s eyes tell him the earth is crying, and before the door closes, he can hear the way it beats the ground. Then the rain is shut off and Kyungsoo realizes he didn’t see who entered the store, nor where his ramen is. He shakes his head and sighs, are these the side effects of enveloping himself in the solitude of the art studio every night? Kyungsoo turns back to the aisle.

Vegetable and fish ramen is near the bottom when he finally spots it, so he crouches down, ignoring the cracks in his knees, and reaches for it. As he reaches, another hand materializes and collides with his in a mess of knuckles and bent digits. Kyungsoo can feel his eyes widening, and he turns his head. His eyes skip over slim legs tucked into blue jeans, a red plaid button-up over a black t-shirt, and dive into deep caramel. The boy’s eyes are warm but intense, and though they are brown, Kyungsoo imagines fire swallowing those irises. He gulps down the lump that has formed in his throat and knows his eyes are wider than ever. The stranger smiles.

It’s wrong, Kyungsoo thinks, the way the boy’s lips turn up mockingly to crease the inconceivable features of his face. The way he smiles so freely at an absolute stranger evokes something in Kyungsoo, something that lurches his gut forward and his stomach into his throat.

“You coming?” A voice calls from down the aisle, behind the boy. Kyungsoo doesn’t look. The boy does. Eye contact is broken and Kyungsoo finds air again, taking a moment to observe and assess.

He sees the boy’s sharp jaw first and he finds it fascinating, he sees the nape made of silky skin and neat hair and finds it tempting, he sees plush lips protruding into a pout and finds it endearing. Kyungsoo forces himself to look away.

“Sorry,” the boy turns around and takes the ramen packet before Kyungsoo can realize his conversation with the other voice had finished. Kyungsoo watches him reach the end of the aisle before he looks back and notices there are no more vegetable and fish ramen packets left. Before he can think anything of it, there’s a crash and a laugh from behind him. Kyungsoo stands up and looks over the aisle in alarm.

Caramel boy’s face is scrunched together, high pitched laughter escaping his throat that mimics the sound of a child skipping down the street. Besides him, on the floor, is a boy with blonde hair who Kyungsoo can only assume is the other voice he had heard earlier. The blonde boy lays both over and under packages of spicy beef jerky, the cardboard stand squashed under limbs and torso. Another round of laughter leaves caramel boy’s throat, and Kyungsoo feels the corners of his mouth pull up into a grin. Kyungsoo doesn’t know why.

A slight lady behind the register walks out of her booth to tell the two off, her voice rising higher and higher. Kyungsoo debates whether he should hide behind the aisle and wait until he can buy a packet of ramen, or if he should just leave. After a few seconds of thought, Kyungsoo stumbles past his shyness, pulls on his hood, and pushes the door out into the rainy night.

When he’s settled into his apartment, wet clothes hung up to dry in the bathroom, Kyungsoo sits in front of the canvas. This time, there are no new movements of inspiration running through his hand.

Although, a childish smile and caramel eyes burn into his mind all night long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only exists because S always says 'YOLO' and I really need to write this fic. I'll try to update as frequently as possible, but I don't know how often that will be because of school.


	2. I

A hum has settled over the apartment, its presence undeviating and ominous.

Besides the sound of air being viciously expelled from his lungs and crawling back into his nose, the hum is the only thing he hears for days.

At first, it annoys Kyungsoo to no end. It digs through the fragments of his thoughts and pierces his brain, constant and insidious. It’s like an airplane unable to land, hovering right by the door to his apartment and threatening to crush Kyungsoo’s brain. _Go ahead,_ he wants to say, but there is no airplane, and he is still plagued by the cold clinging to his back, chilling his bones and setting his skin on fire.

Then Kyungsoo learns to live with the hum, and becomes comfortable with the fact that it clears his brain of all thoughts, forcing him to forget the list of things he has to do. It is like this that Kyungsoo finds himself basking in the hum on a Friday, completely oblivious to time, watching the rain make patterns on his living room window.

It is some kind of cruel bliss, the fact that the B-lymphocytes in Kyungsoo’s body are working themselves to a bloody death trying to fight off foreign bacteria, while all he can actually process is the tranquility being sent to his brain through his optic nerve.

He lays there, longingly staring at the wondrous designs brought by nature being unleashed upon his window, wondering how such a thing could possibly be so disgustingly objectified when on canvas.

While Kyungsoo supposedly lives and breathes art, he never fails to see the false sense of fulfillment it brings. To the observer, never. To the artist? Always. Every piece he produces requires him to take a piece of his heart and hurl it onto remnants of trees that have been flattened for him to use.

And people can never appreciate that. Because art can never be perfect. Art can never compete with nature.

It’s the one thing that makes him wonder if this profession is actually worth all the pain.

A knock finally brings him out of the sick trance. It’s soft at first, hesitant. Then another three follow, much stronger, rattling the new but cheap wooden door at the front of Kyungsoo’s apartment.

The man wobbles forwards after unwrapping himself from a pile of blankets, failing to shake the fuzz of sickness from his head brought on by the sudden motion.

He gets through the kitchen before another knock makes him jump, a gasp ejecting itself from his wrecked throat.

“Soo?” A muffled voice sounds through the thin wood, and Kyungsoo’s heartbeat slows as he opens the door and sees his best friend since high school, Kim Junmyeon standing there.

Junmyeon smiles warmly—as he always does. Kyungsoo sniffs loudly and his lips twitch upwards, before he turns around and shuffles back inside. He hears the door click behind him as he settles onto the couch again and closes his eyes.

The sound of plastic bags being ruffled sounds from the kitchen and Kyungsoo sighs, but refuses to peel his eyelids apart. “What are you doing?”

“You haven’t been at school all week. I didn’t want you to starve in here, so I’m making you lunch,” Junmyeon’s voice calls softly. Of course he couldn’t expect Junmyeon to come in and be silent. Humans don’t work like that.

Kyungsoo doesn’t comment on it and goes back to doing nothing. This time, he has to search for the hum underneath the sounds of human activity a few metres away from him, but eventually he finds its lingering presence again. He wonders if it has always been there, or if he’s just loopy because of the parasites fighting to break down the fabric of his body. Can Junmyeon hear it? Maybe he should ask him later. The useless train of thought sends Kyungsoo into a restless slumber.

*********

He feels before he sees or hears. He is shaking and there is something moving him.

“Kyungsoo?” The voice crackles in his ears. He forces his eyes to open. Junmyeon leans over him, that _smile_ on his face again. If Kyungsoo’s head was filled with consciousness, he would have wondered if it ever came off. Then he remembers the war going on in his body and suppresses a groan.

“What time is it?”

“2:16. You slept for two hours, Soo,” Junmyeon says in that nurturing tone he’s adopted over the years, and gives him a pitying look to match. “Lunch is ready, please don’t let it sit for too long.” Junmyeon moves to sink into the couch beside him and it creaks under the weight. “I already ate so I guess I should probably leave soon.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head, “It’s ok.” A cough wracks his body and Junmyeon reaches out a hand, probably to pat his back, but Kyungsoo glares.

The younger man sits up slowly, feeling his hair recover from being compressed between his head and the pillow. He shivers, teeth chattering, as he makes his way to the kitchen. Junmyeon follows him and leans on the counter as he watches Kyungsoo pour doenjang jjigae into a bowl.

“The food program at the community centre is accepting volunteers again,” Junmyeon starts, picking at the sleeve of his striped woolen sweater. “You said you wanted to meet my boyfriend, and I know you like cooking, so you should come.”

Kyungsoo finishes scooping tofu into his bowl, and moves to sit in front of the couch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go, because he does. Though Junmyeon is older than him, he wants to see who thinks they deserve his best friend’s heart. He would never say it out loud, not even to save his life, but he’s extremely protective over the older man. “When is it?”

Junmyeon is probably smiling, _still_ , but Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from his food to check. “Tuesday, starting at 4:30.”

Kyungsoo frowns. The abstract piece that has been following him for the past week is due on Wednesday. “We’ll meet in front of the art department, then bus?” He’ll do it for Junmyeon, although he knows it’s procrastination that won him over in the end.

There’s a nod from the older man before Kyungsoo is standing up and shuffling into the kitchen to dump his empty dish in the sink.

“I’m gonna go. Call me if you need anything.” Junmyeon says and begins to gather his things.

“Alright.”

Normally, Kyungsoo might ask him to stay and watch a movie with him or work on their respective assignments, but not today.

Today is the perfect day to question raindrops on windows.

*********

Tuesday afternoon rolls around quickly enough, nothing plaguing Kyungsoo’s brain in the days leading up to it. Just the usual deal with school trying to rip him to shreds.

When the sound of his alarm pulls him out of slumber, Kyungsoo groans. At least no strands of sickness linger in his head, as they had repeatedly done for the past few mornings. A tiny ball of hope digs its way under Kyungsoo’s ribs as he pulls on a navy blue sweater, subconsciously paying attention to the way he looks because he never figured out how to step out of society’s expectations.

The art department is lively—as it usually is—with its students glueing their field of vision to canvases and clay and various other mediums. But no one stays late enough to watch the moon make its way into the bags under Kyungsoo’s eyes. No one understands the horror of empty hallways and echoing linoleum. Kyungsoo shivers.

But today he can leave early; today he gathers the fragments of tools and imagination littered across his workspace at exactly 3:26pm. He zips his raincoat up to his chin, careful not to pinch his skin in between the metal pieces, and folds his arms across his chest as he exits the building, stray thoughts filling his head like dust in a library.

Junmyeon is standing near a wilted flower bed in front of the parking, rocking back and forth on his heels. He has his phone in his hand and his eyes are staring into the screen like it holds all the answers in the world, a characteristic he has in common with the majority of his generation.

There is a street between them that Kyungsoo looks down both sides before crossing. “Who are you texting?” Kyungsoo tries for a smile, it doesn’t feel real, he lets it slide off.

“Hm?” Junmyeon jumps a bit at the sound of Kyungsoo’s voice. “Oh! Hey! I was just texting my boyfriend,” Junmyeon’s smile oozes flower bouquets and breakfast in bed. “Letting him know where I am,” and he _winks._ Kyungsoo shudders. ‘ _Should have said no to the whole thing, you haven’t even started the painting—‘_ Kyungsoo shuts the thoughts down.

Junmyeon won’t stop texting, even while they’re getting Kyungsoo a volunteer card and going through orientation. It warms Kyungsoo’s heart to know someone means so much to his best friend, but it simultaneously grates at his nerves because the older man has been reduced to nothing but an obsessed schoolgirl. Kyungsoo busies himself with placing skillets and spice packages onto the stainless steel counter when they’re finally in the community centre’s small kitchen. The recipe is easy enough; butternut squash ravioli with seared chicken.

“For the senior’s potluck and karaoke gathering tomorrow,” the young lady with a bright personality and orange hair to match had told them during orientation. Kyungsoo wondered if he would live long enough to attend something like that, or if he would still be open to human interaction at such an age, considering the fact that he finds everyone less than tolerable now.

The kitchen’s layout is easy enough to get around, as all the drawers and cabinets are labelled with little drawings and words. Although, it is incredibly small. Kyungsoo doubts they could fit more than five people in it. A large, metal-topped island is in the centre of the room, and a huge stove is on one of the four walls, a sink and the door to the storage room along another, and counters lining the remaining two. There is a smell that lingers, like the place had been inhabited and then cleaned by too many people and couldn’t absorb all the smells, so it smashed them into one mess of human and cleaning supplies.

“He’ll be here soon,” Junmyeon’s voice slices through Kyungsoo’s messy train of thought, a swan gliding through unsettled water. He turns to face the older man, leaning his back on the edge of the metal island.

“Alright sounds good.”

“Sorry for making you wait, Soo. I’ll help you set up now,” Junmyeon smiles sheepishly, tucking his phone into his pocket.

Kyungsoo can’t help but laugh, finding something funny in the irony of that sentence. It’s genuine, though. Some part of him has forgotten to measure the flaws lining the edges of his smile and sound of his laughter that have been picked at far too many times. He never asked why it was the happiest parts of him that were clawed at. The world must like to see him bleed.

He throws an apron laying on the island at Junmyeon’s chest, the smile fading quickly from his lips. “Already miles ahead of you, hyung.”

A laugh escapes Junmyeon’s throat too, and though it’s not as deep or loud as Kyungsoo’s, its gentle tones sit in the air and fill it with more ease. It’s a laugh Kyungsoo can only hope to have.

Kyungsoo’s eyes are absorbed in the motions of Junmyeon’s slender hands as they tie the apron around his waist, but his mind is trying—with great difficulty—to keep the dark, self-loathing thoughts to a minimum. It’s not healthy, he knows. He’s all kinds of fucked up, he knows. He shouldn’t be allowed—

“Soo?” The frown lines on Junmyeon’s long forehead are deep. And distracting. He waves his hand in front of Kyungsoo’s face.

“Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts. Did—“

The sound of the door opening cuts his voice off, turning his sentence into a wisp of forgotten smoke in his throat. Kyungsoo’s eyebrows raise. Blonde hair. Tall, muscular, but thin. The Beef Jerky boy from the convenience store stands on the other side of the island.

Before Kyungsoo can make an embarrassing noise of recognition, Junmyeon is moving around the island towards the man. If he wasn’t paying attention, Kyungsoo wouldn’t have noticed the way his hyung’s hand moves to intertwine with the stranger’s.

A smirk lifts Beef Jerky’s lips as he looks down into Junmyeon’s eyes. Kyungsoo diverts his gaze to the speck of dirt on one corner of the metal island.

“Keys? But you don’t have a license, Sehunnie,” Junmyeon’s voice carries the most endearing tone Kyungsoo has ever heard from him.

The sound of the door opening again makes Kyungsoo look up.

“Forgot to tell you, Jongin drove me.” Sehun tosses the keys to a new figure in the room. “Thank you,” he says with a playful tune in his voice.

 _It can’t be._ Caramel Eyes. _Oh, of course it’s not._ It’s the boy from the convenience store.

Getting a good look at him now, without shock sitting in his windpipe and his heartbeat eating his ears, Kyungsoo gets the full package of the strikingly handsome boy. He’s not a romantic, but he swears the boy is even more visually appealing than the last time they met. Maybe it’s the lighting, or the way his hair is swept up, or the long caramel blazer that frames him in a ridiculously perfect fashion that shouldn’t be akin to man. Kyungsoo wonders if he’s suddenly walked into the middle of a high end fashion show in Paris.

Caramel boy—Jongin—chuckles and the sound comes out nasally, but weirdly pleasing. Kyungsoo wonders if that’s how everything works with Jongin, like the pieces of him shouldn’t fit together, but have been forcefully molded together to create an anomalous masterpiece.

“What’s with the formal wear? You know we’re just cooking, right?” Kyungsoo swerves back into reality at the sound of Junmyeon’s voice partnered with a laugh. It is only then that Kyungsoo notices Sehun is also wearing a blazer, although a much shorter one, made of houndstooth patterned fabric.

“My mom insisted on a house party, except, you know, in the gardens of course,” Sehun rolls his eyes. “Jongin’s family was invited as usual.” Junmyeon nods.

Kyungsoo shifts from his spot, the metal edge digging into his back finally annoying him. It is then that Junmyeon decides to acknowledge him again.

He moves around the island again to stand beside Kyungsoo, and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Guys, this is my best friend, Kyungsoo.” He leans forward to whisper, “be nice,” which makes Sehun let out a giggle for whatever reason. Kyungsoo stares at a spot on the table, sweat building at the back of his neck from the sudden attention. He shouldn’t be nervous, he has Junmyeon with him after all. A sharp gasp makes him look up, his eyes widening, always widening.

“Kyungsoo? Do Kyungsoo?” It’s Jongin. Kyungsoo’s eyes sink into caramel and are stuck there, unable to look away.

“Yeah.” His voice is raspy and quiet at best.

Jongin’s eyes widen, exposing more white around that caramel, and Kyungsoo realizes that his eyes are much darker than he thought, or maybe it’s the lighting.

“It’s,” so hesitant, _why is he so hesitant?_ “It’s Nini.” The hush in Jongin’s voice washes over the room and time is suspended with Kyungsoo’s intake of breath.

Kyungsoo is in that yard again, dirt caking his stubby fingers and turning the undersides of his nails black, his father’s voice raining pebbles of saliva on his earth-turned face. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s impolite to call him that! As a Do, I thought I raised you better than that!” He feels ashamed. He doesn’t know why. _Nini._

And now he’s sitting on the swings in that playground, shoes laying abandoned in the pale green grass, another pair not too far away. “It’s ok. I really don’t mind, Soo.” And then much quieter, softer, “I kinda like it.” Warmth fills his chest, butterflies being massacred against the walls of his stomach. He doesn’t know _why. Nini._

“Soo?”

“Yeah, Nini?”

“Let’s go visit the stars one day, just you and me.”

Kyungsoo smiles, warmth filling his cheeks and his hands and his stomach and his chest, and always, his heart. He looks over at Jongin laying besides him on that bed. Jongin is looking out at the stars. Kyungsoo can’t look away. He can never look away. “Ok.” Maybe he’ll never know why. _Nini._

But how? How can this man standing in front of him be the same boy? How can this be Kyungsoo’s Jongin?

Kyungsoo’s Jongin ate buttercups when no one was looking. This Jongin drowns in a sleek, spotless light brown sweater. Kyungsoo’s Jongin got into fights with his mother over the state of his hair. This Jongin runs his elegant fingers through perfect straight brown hair. Kyungsoo’s Jongin stood behind him every time they met someone new. This Jongin holds himself with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how sumptuous they look.

“Do you two know each other?” It’s Sehun.

Kyungsoo’s breath nearly trips over itself on the way out of his throat, “Yes.” He stares into Jongin’s eyes and he doesn’t understand anything, but he sees more than he thinks he should.

There’s a pause in the air before Sehun clears his throat, which forces Kyungsoo’s eyes in his direction. He realizes then that the air hangs with the awkwardness of strangers and suddenly there are roses blooming in his cheeks, uncomfortable and unwelcome.

“Our parents were good friends so we met when we were young. We used to spend a lot of time together,” a small smile fills Kyungsoo’s lips with nostalgia.

“What happened? Why don’t you see each other anymore?” Junmyeon asks.

Kyungsoo can feel the discomfort of roses in his throat now, thorns piercing where they know he will hurt most. He’s about to cough out a bloody answer but Jongin beats him to it.

“Right before the start of middle school, my dad got a huge business opportunity in Canada, so we had to move. I spent all of high school and my first two years of Uni there.”

Kyungsoo risks a glance at Jongin again, and instantly regrets it. He’s staring at the steel countertop, hands twined together, and a frown drags the corners of his lips towards the floor. He thinks he sees water lining Jongin’s eyes, or maybe it’s just the lighting.

There is a thing in Kyungsoo’s stomach growing by the second, and it’s has petals made of his blood, and thorns sharper than the katana displayed in his father’s office.

It’s not the reasons behind what happened or the way the events were carried out that hurts, it’s the boy who was vitally important in his life that was suddenly missing, someone who had been attached to him since forever, suddenly ripped away. Usually Kyungsoo folds these memories and feelings neatly into an envelope and ships it to the part of his mind labelled ‘Never Open,’ but with the source of his problem standing a few feet away from him, he finds it nearly impossible.

_Kyungsoo can’t do this._

“Should we start cooking?”

 _So he runs away_.

Junmyeon is the one that saves him. “Yeah, let’s get started! Me and Sehun will get started on the ravioli and you guys can do chicken.”

Except maybe he wasn’t really saved at all. Being in close proximity with Jongin again after _years_ feels like being nailed to a pole and stuck in the sand on a beach with waves the size of houses, smashing into him against his will.

“You probably don’t remember, but I love chicken,” Jongin’s grin is made of hot cocoa.

Of course Kyungsoo remembers. He also remembers his favourite flower—daisies—and his favourite song—Can’t Help Falling In Love—and that he feels safest when he’s inside on a rainy day and that he always needs a glass of milk before bed. Kyungsoo remembers too much.

“You can have some of it when we’re done,” Kyungsoo offers. Jongin lets out a happy cheer, and Kyungsoo can’t help but smile.

Kyungsoo is somewhat grateful for the fact that there’s a lot of chicken to cook, so both him and Jongin are busy manning their respectful skillets. They stay like that in comfortable silence for a while, although there is a hole between them that becomes more and more apparent. It stretches like a fresh wound, white and red blood cells desperately clotting to protect themselves and the body they belong to from the shock of open air. But they failed long ago. A layer of clotting cannot tie the rift between them when the bacteria of untold stories and changed personalities already made its way beneath the surface.

Jongin seems to think otherwise. “What are you majoring in?”

Kyungsoo turns a large piece of spiced chicken over in the skillet, wincing when some oil jumps to the edge of the metal rim and sizzles dangerously. “Visual Arts.”

A silence blankets them again and Kyungsoo—a fool—looks up at Jongin to gauge his reaction. He can’t read the furrow in his brows, or the curve of his lips, but in his deep brown eyes, he thinks he sees something reminiscent of a time long before. Kyungsoo looks away.

Jongin sighs besides him. “How’s Seungsoo-hyung? Did he go into law enforcement? I remember he always said he was gonna save the world.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes widen. “He’s,” _with mom._ “Fine. Yeah, he went into law enforcement.” _He took so much time off to stay with her that he got fired._

“That’s good. You and Junmyeon-ssi became friends in high school, right?“

“Yeah.”

“I’m happy that you,” Jongin pauses for a moment. Is he weighing his words? Kyungsoo isn’t sure. “Had someone you could talk to during those years. Those were the hardest.”

Every time Kyungsoo blinks, he time travels. Years flash behind his eyelids like positive afterimages that last too long. “They were,” he says quietly.

A silence fills the air and makes the hole between them apparent again. Jongin seems to feel the need to fill it.

“Are you-“

But something combusts in Kyungsoo, and thorns force their way out of his throat to interrupt Jongin. Slashed petals are all that’s left of beautiful blossoms. “When did you get back?”

His eyes are glued to the oil bubbles forming and collapsing around the greasy piece of chicken, but Kyungsoo doesn’t miss Jongin’s sharp intake of breath.

“Five months ago.”

At that, Kyungsoo’s eyes swivel to latch onto Jongin’s. They stay there for a long time. “And you couldn’t say…” Kyungsoo’s voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it above the angry boiling oil. “Anything?”

Maybe it’s the lighting, but Kyungsoo swears the bottom rim of Jongin’s eyes fills with glass.

“I-“ Jongin’s eyes widen and suddenly he’s launching himself forward, causing Kyungsoo to jump backwards in shock. Jongin’s elegant fingers wrap around the handle of the skillet Kyungsoo was working with, and he practically throws the metal disc off the stove. For a brief moment, Kyungsoo wonders if Jongin’s hands had always been so pleasant to look at, but then his heartbeat muffles his thoughts and roses bloom again. “Goodness, Soo, you could have hurt yourself! The chicken was burning!”

There are roses occupying Kyungsoo’s cheeks now, and though they are uncomfortable, he supposes that in this situation, they have good reason to be there. “Sorry. Thank you, Jongin.” Despite himself, Kyungsoo smiles. It’s the kind that shows his teeth, he knows. He can feel the stretch of his lips around them and he’s self conscious for a moment before the roses in his cheeks tell him a story. They fill him with all the memories of a time long gone, a time with no worries, and he forgets the crushing weight on his shoulders for a moment.

“Are you guys ok?” Junmyeon asks from across the kitchen where the pasta has already been drained and Sehun is making the sauce.

Kyungsoo nods. “Yeah,” he says before Jongin can respond. Sehun must spot the dislocated skillet, because he snickers a few moments later. Or maybe it’s at Jongin, whose eyes are comically wide, making his face look ridiculously childish. Kyungsoo can’t help but laugh. “Your chicken is going to burn if you don’t flip it now.”

Jongin jolts, eyes shrinking to their normal, somewhat-sleepy demeanour. He turns back to the stove to look after the chicken. A close lipped smile refuses to leave Kyungsoo’s lips.

Everything is much smoother from that point on. The rest of the chicken gets cooked without any mishaps, and besides Sehun whining about the ‘disgusting’ consistency of the sauce, everything goes according to plan.

Kyungsoo sighs in relief when the food is piled neatly onto plates, wrapped in plastic, and sitting in the fridge. He leans against a counter, arms crossed over his chest, and closes his eyes. He listens to Sehun and Junmyeon’s chatter for a few minutes, letting his thoughts wander aimlessly, blissfully. A warm touch at his wrist breaks the atmosphere forming in his head.

A pouty Jongin stands a foot away from him, and Kyungsoo has to tilt his head to look into the younger man’s eyes. He scoffs at the pitiful look on his face. It’s endearing, and so reminiscent of the wild boy from years ago, that Kyungsoo can’t stop the grin breaking like dawn across his face.

Kyungsoo can’t stop anything anymore. “What is it, Nini?” A split second after it’s escaped his lips, Kyungsoo’s eyes widen and at this point, roses must be engraved into the skin of his cheeks.

The younger boy seems to take no notice of it, though. “You said I could have some chicken.”

The sentence hovers in the air for a moment before Kyungsoo laughs. Jongin really is too much. Looking for answers, Kyungsoo turns to Junmyeon. The older man is playing with Sehun’s hands, the latter leaning into him and pressing him against the island, talking animatedly about something. Kyungsoo’s heart warms for his best friend. They look...happy. It’s something Kyungsoo would hope to have in another life. He turns away from the intimate moment and takes things into his own hands. He takes a plate from the fridge, deciding that the gathering can survive with one less plate of chicken and pasta. He places the plate onto the counter beside the stove.

“I’ll have the pasta and you can have the chicken.”

Jongin nods and soon they’re eating in another comfortable silence, the hole between them squashed thin by the lack of personal space. It feels like they’re eight again, stuffing their faces with food from Jongin’s kitchen. Kyungsoo relaxes into the feeling, and this time, when they break into conversation about the past, there are no thorns forcing their way up his throat.

They finish the food quickly, their discussion lasting much longer.

“Remember that time you dared me to jump a huge puddle and then you got jealous when I made it and-“ A snicker breaks Kyungsoo’s sentence before he can finish it, “when you tried to jump it, you face planted!” A laugh fills Kyungsoo’s stomach with butterflies that launch themselves into the air.

“Hey, it’s not funny! I swear there were worms in that mud. Do you even know how many times I had to wash my mouth out? I’m scarred for life now,” but Jongin laughs along with him anyway.

They go on and on and on, throwing memories between each other like one would play catch. Laughs and smiles and butterflies litter the air. Kyungsoo gratefully finds bliss in forgetting the future and recounting the past.

Though it ends too quickly, like all good things, a smile sticks itself to the corners of Kyungsoo’s lips for the remainder of the day. Even when Junmyeon waves goodbye in front of the train station and leaves the younger man in the clutches of his own dark thoughts, there is still something that keeps Kyungsoo floating.

Somehow the darkness of his flat isn’t as suffocating as he remembers. Stress doesn’t fill his mind, even as he sits in front of the canvas he had set up that morning, knowing he would leave everything until now.

Caramel eyes, elegant fingers, fancy clothes, high pitched laughter, butterflies, the smell of burning chicken, a meadow full of daisies; something feels right this time.

 Kyungsoo paints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm never going to be satisfied with my writing ;-;


End file.
